


When You Say Nothing At All

by 221b_hound



Series: Guitar Man [64]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Captain John Watson, First Aid, Gen, Rule One, Sherlock is an idiot, plasters, sweary John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 20:14:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock did something brilliant, which was also something very stupid. John makes sure Sherlock remains attentive while delivering his lecture. He has to drag out Captain Watson and a bit of Doctor BAMF to make his point. Also: many, many plasters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Say Nothing At All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> This fic came about because of an exchange on Atlinmerrick's [latest Minutiae fic ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/441850/chapters/2110369)(though the exchange took place on her LJ).
> 
> The plasters in questions are [here](http://i.imgur.com/O3M5Bbd.gif)
> 
> The title is of course from Ronan Keating's (You Say it Best) When You Say Nothing At All.

“John, this is…”

“Shut it.”

“…totally unnecessary.”

“Shut. Up.”

“You are being melodramatic.”

“Sherlock. Stop talking to me.” John wiped the ball of cotton wool soaked in medical disinfectant over another scraped and scabbing portion of his friend. Sherlock winced but refused to give John the satisfaction of hissing at the sting.

“You’re fussing over nothing.”

“You have a cut six inches long across your shoulder. You must have hit a stone or a piece of glass as you landed.”

“It doesn’t need stitches.”

“You have bruises coming out on the bruises.”

 “It’s nothing.”

“And gravel rash over the lot.”

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

“You…”

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

To emphasise the point, John pressed his hand over Sherlock’s mouth and glared. Sherlock glared back. It would have been more effective, if it weren’t for the black eye. And the cut on his jaw. And the blood crusted on his left ear. John, with one hand still over Sherlock’s mouth, swiped a fresh ball of cotton wool over the injury to clean the small nick under it.

“Since it needs explaining to you,” said John, “I will explain it to you. No. Shut up. You are listening to me. You are shutting up and listening to me.”

To make his point even clearer, John took the plaster he’d been about to apply to one of the smaller cuts on Sherlock’s forearm and placed it right over the centre of Sherlock’s mouth.

The plaster – one of the novelty ones that Violet had bought them for Christmas – said ‘CRIME SCENE DO NOT ENTER’. John so liked the effect that he put a second one right next to it, and a third, fourth, and fifth while he delivered his lecture.

“When you jump out of a moving car in pursuit of a killer, gravity doesn’t cease to operate because you’re the mighty Sherlock Fucking Holmes.”

A noise that might have been an exasperated ‘John!’ emerged from behind the plasters. John added another one to the layer.

“Your stupendous brain does not negate physics when you hit gravel, no matter how much you roll with the fucking flow in your hare-brained, I’m-a-goddamned-acrobat, Bond-esque heroics.”

“Mmf.”

“You are not made of Teflon. You are not Iron Man. No, you don’t know who that is and I’m not explaining. Shut the fuck up.”

“Rrrrrgh.” Sherlock reached up to take the wad of plasters off his mouth. His left wrist was bandaged, the palms of both hands were scraped and lathered in ointment and two of his fingers on his right hand were splinted. His remaining fingers were stiff and having trouble getting the edge of the plaster up.

John took Sherlock’s hands gently but very, very firmly in his and pushed them back down into Sherlock’s lap. He pushed his face right into Sherlock’s to say in his most quelling Captain Watson voice: “Do. Not. Fucking. Move. You. Utter. Twat. I. Am. Talking.”

Sherlock’s eyes went a little wide, and he went very still.

John kept on talking, putting plasters over Sherlock’s jaw, his hands, his thigh, his knees, his ear, his foot, and, for good measure, his nose, over both the fleshy part and the bridge. Only half of those places actually had injuries. John kept on applying the things anyway, all over Sherlock’s face and arms.

“It is only because you are amazing and brilliant and apparently have the motor skills of a Jumping Spider that you were able to do that massively impressive, massively _stupid_ thing and survive. It was the horizontal version of jumping off St Barts and _do not_ get me started on that, Sherlock, just fucking _don’t_. You nearly gave me a cardiac arrest, today. I was having honest-to-fucking-God _palpitations_.”

It was hard to tell under all the crime scene plasters, but it was possible that for a moment, Sherlock actually looked contrite.

“And do you know what was so _especially_ stupid about today’s stunt; what made it such a pearler of a fuck-up?”

Sherlock nodded his head.

“That’s right. You do. Because you are an A1, World Class, velvet-tipped, gold-plated, consulting fucking genius.”

Sherlock’s eyes got a little wider.

“It was because I was already on the little toad’s arse. I was _already there_. On the street. With Greg, and back-up. We _had_ him, Sherlock. We had him in our sights and we were ready to take him down and it was all under control.”

Sherlock panted a little out of the sides of his mouth.

“Yes, I said _under control_. There was no need for you to dive out of a fucking taxi and tackle the armed-with-a-hunting-knife son of a bitch and scrape yourself from head to foot like a… like a…”

John glared at Sherlock as though it was Sherlock’s fault he couldn’t think of a suitable analogy.

“Mmm fffgh oou PPPFM!”

John folded his arms and intensified the glare.

“Oh yes. His gun.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. The crinkle around the visible lines of his face was remarkably eloquent in its scorn.

“Yes, I know. Grated like a cheese in a Moulinex slicer after hurling yourself out of a moving taxi, you then leapt to our defence and knocked the gun out of his hand. Impressive. Just like in the movies. Well done, you.” John applauded. Sarcastically.

“Fffghhh pthffftee.”

“Yeah, I know, I’m hilarious. But do you know what else you could have done, you insane prat?”

“Fffghaut?”

“Yelled out _Gun!_ Or, if you felt you had time – and surely it would have taken less time than opening a door and throwing yourself out of a _moving fucking vehicle_ – you could have shouted _John! Gun! Left hand!”_

The plasters now over both Sherlock’s eyebrows shifted, indicating he’d raised them.

“Yes. _Left_ hand. I did see it, you know.”

“Mmmffft.”

“I spent rather a lot of time, once upon a time, walking around in places where I had to be alert for concealed weapons becoming suddenly unconcealed and shooting at me. I am quite good at spotting who has them and where.”

Sherlock’s expression was now extremely cross. It still wasn’t as cross as John’s.

“And of course since then I’ve spent a lot of time with _you_. Still getting shot at, as it happens. So, just so you know, I did have that whole ‘he’s got a fucking gun’ thing covered already.”

Some more buzzing sounds came from behind the plasters.

“For a clever man you are a priceless, brass-balled, addlepated, arse-brained git, sometimes. Sherlock, you have to _trust_ me.”

Sherlock growled something.

“I don’t mean that. I mean you have to trust me to know my _job_.”

Another, slightly more mellow, growl.

John sighed. He reached up and, in one quick motion, ripped all the plasters from Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s yell of pain was only slightly magnified for effect. The watering of the eyes was entirely real.

“Perhaps you stopped him from shooting me; perhaps not. I appreciate it, Sherlock, I do. But you and I have had words about this before. No funerals. _You do not get yourself killed_. That’s Rule One.”

“No,” snapped Sherlock, “Rule one is you don’t get _your_ self killed.”

“I think you’ll find it’s effectively the same Rule One.”

“In practice it is more complicated than that, John, you _idiot_.”

“Look which idiot is talking. God. Listen to me. We are both idiots. In practice, we are fucking _awful_ at Rule One.”

“Your logic is faulty. We are both still here. Rule One has been upheld.”

They glared at each other a bit more. Then John started to giggle. He pointed at Sherlock’s profusely plastered face.

“You look like a crime scene,” he said and rocked back in his chair, laughing harder.

Sherlock took up a fresh plaster and, though it was a bit awkward around his bandages, he peeled the backing off and then slapped the plaster right over John’s mouth.

“There,” he said, “Now you do, too.”

“Idffghhiot,” said John affectionately around the plastic.

“Yes,” Sherlock finally agreed with a quiet huff of breath. He leaned his forehead against John’s. “Next time I will shout ‘ _duck_!’”

“Plsz.” John whipped off the plaster and rubbed his lips. Then he stared at Sherlock’s hands. “I guess that’s me doing all the chores for the next week.”

“Nothing new there,” said Sherlock smugly.

“No experiments for you either.”

Sherlock looked less smug. Then he grinned. Devilishly. Thinking up devilish experiments to perform, no doubt.

John yanked the plasters off Sherlock’s eyebrows and left him to complain, bitterly, with watering eyes while John, unrepentant, stalked into the kitchen to put the kettle on for tea.

 

**Author's Note:**

> And here is some info on [ Jumping Spiders. ](http://animals.about.com/od/arachnids/qt/jumpingspider.htm)


End file.
